Poison Ivy: a dark high school bully romance

Book 1: Stonehurst Prep Elite

by Steffanie Holmes

Genres: New Adult Romance; Suspense; Dark Romance; Bully Romance; dark romance

Synopsis

I’ll do anything to get in. I’ll even become theirs.

Victor. Torsten. Cassius – the jock, the artist, the stepbrother.
The Poison Ivy Club.
Ruthless.
Connected.
Violent.
Untouchable.

They rule Stonehurst Prep with an iron fist.
If you want Harvard, Princeton, or Yale, they’ll get you in.
Guaranteed.
But they’ll take their pound of flesh first.
A deal’s a deal – you give them whatever they want, and they’ll make your dreams come true.

And they want me.
In their beds.
On their arms.
Part of their gang.

I’ll do anything to get into an Ivy League school.
I’ll lie. I’ll cheat.
I’ll get on my knees.
I’ll kill.

But those three dark princes will never have my heart.

This is a new adult, dark contemporary romance with three poisonous guys and one fearless girl. It is intended for 18+ readers.

 

Read more

Release date: May 26, 2022

Publisher: Bacchanalia House

Print pages: 519

Sample

CHAPTER ONE: FERGIE

My first clue that we aren’t in Kansas anymore is someone flinging open the car door and ripping my Kate Spade purse from my arms.

 

“Hey!” I yell, because no one touches my Kate and lives to tell the tale. I swing my fist to clobber the thief, but he’s too fast. My blow glances off his arm.

 

“I’ll take your things, ma’am,” the thief says in a stern voice. At least he’s a polite criminal. They really do breed ’em different in Emerald Beach.

 

“Thank you, Seymour. You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She doesn’t know how to act around humans.” Dad sounds tired. He sounds like that a lot lately. We used to have the kind of Hallmark movie father/daughter relationship where we’d laugh about me trying to take out Seymour, whoever the fuck Seymour is. But that was before I imploded our lives. Now, everything I do is another nuisance for him to deal with, because it’s perfectly normal for random people to shove their hands into my lap and take away my stuff. 

 

But I guess this is our new normal now.

 

Our new life. With our bag carrier named Seymour.

 

I wish I’d paid more attention when Dad told me about our move to Emerald Beach. He probably mentioned Seymour. But I’ve been a little busy eating my body weight in Butterfingers and smashing everything and everyone within swinging distance.

 

“—leave the keys with me, sir,” Seymour says to Dad. “I’ll park the car for you and bring the rest of your things inside. She is waiting for you.”

 

Seymour whispers she like it’s a prayer, a supplication. Who is this woman who doesn’t even have a title? Who isn’t Madam or the Mistress or Mrs. Dio to her staff, but simply she?

 

I step out of the car. The sun hits me like a freight train made of fire. Yup, definitely not in Kansas anymore. And by Kansas, I mean Witchwood Falls, Massachusetts. Or Cedarwood Cove, Massachusetts – it depends on who’s asking. I’m a long way from home.

 

Unlike Dorothy, I’m not tapping my magic slippers to whisk me back there. No matter how boiling hot or plastic or fatuous Emerald Beach is, it can’t be as bad as what I’m running from. 

 

We have no home to go back to, thanks to me.

My feet crunch on pebbles. The house looms over me – an enormous wall of marble and glass and terror. I do remember Dad describing it to me, so I don’t have to see it to know it’s gaudy as fuck, with bleached white pillars holding up a carved portico, oversized oak doors, and probably a poorly-carved knock-off of Michelangelo’s David in the center of the tinkling fountain, and gold, gold glittering everywhere. The houses here are probably all the same, like Paris Hilton and a Greek temple had a fuck-baby.

 

My new home.

 

I feel naked without my purse, so I grip my cane a little harder than normal as I move toward the looming edifice of our new life. The doors creak open, and I’m surprised to hear a dark voice speak.

 

“John. You made it in good time, I see.”

 

She sounds like hot cocoa and razor blades.  

 

“Cali.” Dad says her name with this note of awe in his voice. “I’d like you to meet my daughter.”

 

“Hello, Fergus.” My new stepmother says my name stiffly, testing its shape on her tongue.

 

“Fergie,” I say. “Everyone calls me Fergie.”

 

Yes, my name is Fergus, and I’m a girl. It’s the most fucking ridiculous story. Centuries ago, when my ancestors were a bunch of sword-swinging clansmen in Scotland, a rich laird promised a large sum of money to the firstborn son of every generation who was named Fergus. And even though not a cent of this money ever materialized, my clan never passes up the opportunity for an easy buck, so the name’s stuck around. I was supposed to be a boy right up until the moment I shot out of my mother, and so I became Fergie.

 

“Hey, Fergalicious.” Dad uses his pet name for me as he prods me with that tired note in his voice. “I’m so happy you finally get to meet Cali, your new stepmother.”

 

Whoopty doo.

 

I don’t want a fucking stepmother, especially not this woman. But like everything since The Incident, I don’t have any choice in the matter. 

 

A hand grabs mine and shakes, the grip firm and curt – Cali makes it clear she can break my wrist if given the chance. She has some kind of high-powered job in the fitness industry – I never cared enough to ask Dad – and I imagine this is the handshake she has to use for all the roid bros. 

 

Even though I want to play nice for Dad, even though this woman has pulled all kinds of strings for me despite never having met me, I can’t help myself. 

 

I squeeze back.

 

I’m not going to be the weakling. 

 

I won’t be walked all over or made a fool of.

 

Not this time.

 

Cali’s knuckle cracks. She drops my hand.

 

“My two favorite women, together at last,” Dad’s voice squeaks with fake brightness. “I know you’re going to get along brilliantly.”

 

“Come inside.” Cali’s tone hardens into rigid formality. It’s the voice of someone who has no intention of ‘getting along brilliantly.’ She holds open the door, and I follow Dad into a towering foyer. My cane sweeps the floor, the ball tip rolling over cold marble. The sound resonates through three stories, the echo a complete mindfuck. I’ve never stood inside such a void of space before. I mean, mall atriums and concert halls sure, but they’re always full of heaving bodies and noise and excitement and bustle. This house drips with oppressive silence.

 

This is a house of secrets.

 

Good. Maybe it will keep mine locked tight within its walls.

 

Cali’s heels clack on the marble. “We’ve already eaten, but I can have Milo reheat something for you. You must be hungry after that long drive.”

 

“That would be amazing. You have no idea how much I’ve missed Milo’s food. Fergie?” Dad asks me.

 

“I’m not hungry.” 

 

I bite my lip, feeling bad for the snap in my voice. Dad wants this to work so bad. I’ve put him through absolute shit over the last few months. I feel like I’m already on the wrong foot with Cali and we’re barely through the front door. But this house, this woman, it’s too fucking much. I try to keep my voice even. “Can I see my room?”

 

“Follow me,” Cali barks. Her heels click-clack on the stairs. She doesn’t wait for me or grab my arm, which warms me to her a little. My cane hits the bottom step, and I move along until I locate the handrail. I turn my cane in my hand so it will tell me the depth and number of steps, and I climb after her. Dad puffs along behind me. In this empty void of floor wax and bleach, I smell our Volvo’s stale air conditioning and the snack crumbs that cling to us both. 

 

We don’t belong in a house like this, with a woman like Cali.

 

Maybe Dad will see that soon.

 

The stairs circle up and up and up, disorienting me. I’m lost in a labyrinth with a minotaur at its center. But that’s not fair – the monster isn’t my new stepmother. 

 

I left the real monster back in Massachusetts.

 

Cali leads us down a wide, grand hallway. The heels of my boots sink into thick, soft carpet. “Your father and I have a room in the east wing,” she snaps. “There’s a maid, Luella, who lives offsite. Seymour and Milo live in the annex behind the pool. There’s a call button beside your bed if you need them. You and Cassius have this wing. You share a bathroom.”

 

That’s right – I still have to meet Cassius. My new stepbrother.

 

I don’t know anything about him. I never asked. The last few weeks have been a daze, what with my life and future going up in an inferno of my own making. I’ve barely remembered to eat, let alone concern myself about the kid I’ll be sharing the house with. He’s like twelve years old or something, probably smells gross, talks only in grunts, and has obnoxious taste in music. There’s another brother, too, I remember Dad saying – he’s a few years older than me, but he doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Cali throws open a door. “I trust this is sufficient.”

 

“It’s wonderful, thank you so much.” Dad squeezes my hand. “Fergie, what do you think?”

 

I can’t say a thing. My lips are glued shut. I freeze in the doorway, greeting the void of my new room with icy silence.

 

“It’s all decorated in red and gold,” Dad says. “Your stepmother has great taste.”

 

“I don’t give a fuck about paint samples and throw pillows,” Cali scoffs. “Livvie did this.”

 

I don’t know who Livvie is, but Dad obviously does because he laughs like Cali said something utterly hilarious. I try to ignore the squirrel burrowing into my stomach.

 

Dad has this whole life in Emerald Beach already, with Cali and Livvie. He has this world that’s completely apart from me.

 

Did they invite Livvie to their wedding? Because they didn’t invite me.

 

I’m not supposed to be here. They don’t want me here.

 

I manage to drag myself forward, and I walk the perimeter of the room, touching the edges of the furniture. There isn’t much, which I prefer. A bed with a brass bedstead, a shaggy rug covering the vast expanse of floor, a tall dresser, a desk and an overstuffed armchair under the window. My feet scuff a couple of strange divots in the rug, places where something heavy crushed the fibers. I wonder what it was that used to stand in the middle of the floor. 

 

My bags have already been stacked beside the door to the walk-in closet. Seymour’s doing, I suppose. The entire room is bigger than our old house.

 

“We’ll leave you to get your bearings.” Dad kisses the top of my head. “Come down to the kitchen if you want food. It’s the back right corner of the house, through the living and formal dining room.”

 

They leave, closing the door behind them. The moment it clicks shut, I sink into the bed and allow myself a single tear – one salty droplet for the fucking mess I’ve made of my life. 

 

It’s all I deserve.

 

I run my fingers over the exquisite silken material of the bedspread. This Livvie person may earn a derisive smirk from Cali, but she does have taste. 

 

The room even smells nice, like fresh flowers. I bet Seymour left an arrangement somewhere. 

 

I hate myself. 

 

Two weeks ago I stood on a bridge, willing myself to jump off and rid my dad of the burden of my mistakes. Now I’m drowning in silk sheets and manservants in my fucking mansion and I can’t even be grateful. When we left, I tossed most of my possessions, even my jiujitsu Gi, in the trash. I can’t bear any reminders of what my life is supposed to be. 

 

Dad says I’ll shop for new clothes after we settle in. “Most of your stuff won’t work in Emerald Beach, Fergie. They’re different down there.”

 

He’s never been concerned about me fitting in before.

 

Everything’s changed since The Incident. 

 

You’re lucky, I remind myself. You got your mistake wiped out. You can start over. New name. New life. How many other people get this chance?

 

But I don’t want a new name or a new life or a new mother. I want my old life back. I want my 1540 SAT score and my championship belts and for the worst thing in my life to be the stress of writing my personal statement for Harvard—

 

The air shifts.

 

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

 

I hear a creak as the door to the ensuite bathroom swings open.

 

Someone’s in my room.

 

CHAPTER TWO: FERGIE

“Hello?” I call out. I don’t get up, because it’s a bit fucking rude to just wander into someone’s room uninvited, especially when that someone can’t see you, so I’m not giving the intruder a standing ovation.

 

“Hello there,” a gravelly voice says back.

 

I scramble back onto the bed, forcing myself to remain calm. It’s a guy’s voice, around my age, maybe a little older, and definitely not Seymour or my preteen stepbrother. His words drip with danger. 

 

He knows he’s not supposed to be in here, and he doesn’t give a fuck.

 

My skin hums with the awareness of just how large Cali’s home is, how thick and soundproof the walls and floor are, of what might happen to me in a house of secrets while my dad and stepmother eat downstairs.

 

I can’t hear the intruder move across the thick carpet, but I feel his presence loom closer. I slam my hand onto the bedside table, grabbing for anything I can use as a weapon. My fingers close around a ceramic vase – the source of the floral scent.

 

“Come any closer and you’ll be eating daisies,” I growl at the intruder. 

 

I know I should feel afraid. Or angry. Or something. This guy could be about to shoot me in the head or slice my face off or worse. 

 

But I feel exactly the same as I’ve felt since The Incident – numb. Like I’m watching my life unfold around me from a comfy seat up in space. Things happen, but I don’t feel them. I’m detached, weightless. Nothing touches me. Not even this prick.

 

“They’re irises, actually,” he says. Ah, so he’s a smart-ass prick. My favorite type. That stormy voice of his drips with warning. With something wild and dangerous that’s caged right now but might break free at any moment. “What are you doing in this room?” 

 

He’s asking me what I’m doing here?

 

“I live here,” I say.

 

“Do you?” I can hear the smirk in his words.

 

“I do. And what are you doing here? Were you casing the neighborhood and thought you’d sneak in an open window and help yourself to some jewel-encrusted candlesticks?”

 

Yes, that’s it, Fergie. Antagonize the man who’s come to hurt you. Why do you always have to be such a shit-stirrer?

 

Because maybe if he hurts me, I’ll feel something again.

 

The man laughs as though I’ve said something funny. It’s a savage laugh, addictive and edged with menace. It penetrates my skin and pools in my stomach with a hot, needy ache. What the fuck is that about? 

 

“I don’t climb in windows for candlesticks,” he says in a tone that implies there are many things he would climb in a window for. “I have a key. I’m the pool boy.” 

 

The pool boy. I snort. “You’re my stepmother’s plaything. That’s the cliche, isn’t it? The bored rich housewife fucking the pool boy.”

 

He laughs gently. “Cali Dio has never been bored a day in her life. But I dare you to call her a housewife to her face. She’ll tear your skin off and use it to wax the floors.” 

 

He pads closer. I hold up my hand for him to stop. I don’t expect him to be as close as he is. My palm slams against a warm wall of muscle. He’s not wearing a shirt. 

 

Despite myself, my fingers curl into the warmth of his skin, skimming the planes of his pecs, tracing the lattice of raised lines that scar his chest.

 

He has a lot of scars for a pool boy.

 

“I don’t think you should be in here.” My words come out in a croaky whisper. “This is my room.”

 

“Isn’t that interesting.” He grabs my wrist, squeezing tight. “What if I don’t care what you think?”

 

Danger pulses from every word. His finger trails over the underside of my wrist. Goosebumps rise along my arm. I’m trapped in his grip, hemmed in by his body and the knowledge that no matter how hard I scream, no one will hear me. 

 

I wait for fear to grip me, for raw panic to take hold, but it doesn’t happen. 

 

I do feel something else, though. 

 

A flicker of excitement.

 

Great. The first real emotion since The Incident, and it’s completely fucked up. 

 

I don’t want to push him away. His nails scrape over my skin, and the distance between my body and his broad, taut chest feels like a void that I want to jump into and lose myself. His scent curls around me – plum and musk and carnations – dark and wanton and intoxicating.

 

Why do the bad boys have to smell so good?

 

Girls like me don’t crave scarred, broken men who wander uninvited into their rooms. Girls like me are supposed to close our legs, shut our mouths, and write our Harvard essays.

 

But the good girl in me died the day of The Incident. From her ashes rose New Fergie, the one who is numb and lost and broken herself. And I get the vibe that the lump of coal where my heart used to be senses the same darkness inside him, and it draws me in like an Emerald Beach girl to a Louboutin sale.

 

I swallow. “Don’t you have a pool to scrub?”

 

He kisses me.

 

The kiss burns through me like a forest fire. One moment I am an ancient oak, stoic and impenetrable, and the next I melt into him as his lips shoot sparks into my veins.

 

Fuck. 

 

I’ve been in Emerald Beach all of fifteen minutes and I’ve broken the cardinal rule I set for myself.  

 

Don’t get involved.

 

And you know what? 

 

Fuck it.

 

Fuck it all the way to Hades.

 

I’ve already messed up as much as a person can possibly mess up. I’ve lost everything I spent my entire life working for. I have nothing left.

 

Except for this moment.

 

Except his lips on mine.

 

Except his fire burning through my veins, lighting up places inside me I thought were dead and dark and buried forever.

 

So yeah, why not kiss the pool boy?

 

Why not taste plum and carnation and sweet, sweet sin?

 

Why not…

 

He grabs me behind the neck, strong and possessive, bringing me closer as if he’s trying to crawl inside my skin. My legs go around him, dragging his crotch against mine. He’s wearing jeans, designer by the feel of them. The buttons clank against the metal of my belt buckle. He growls low in his throat as he leans me back on the bed, shoving my top up to grab my tits.

 

He’s rough with them, tugging at the nipples until I bite his lip. The pads of his fingers are coarse from manual labor. They feel fucking amazing, so different from…

 

No. 

 

I shut off the part of my brain that wants to go back there, back to another boy in another life who no longer gets to take up real estate in my head. I’m not that girl anymore. 

 

I’m the girl who fucks the pool boy in her stepmother’s mansion. I’m the girl who soaks her panties when he twists her nipple so hard that tears spring in her eyes.

 

“You like that?” he growls. “You like it rough, you thirsty slut? Good, because I’m going to be brutal.”

 

I should slap him for that insolence, but his words only stoke the fire hotter. I lean on my elbows as the pool boy paws at my belt, whipping it from the loops and tossing it across the room. It clangs against the dresser. My tight black jeans follow, and he hooks a finger in the elastic of my scarlet lace panties, the pad of his thumb sliding over the ribbon threaded through the corset eyelets. 

 

“You wore these to meet your stepmother for the first time?” I can’t decide if he sounds amused or disgusted.

 

“Maybe I wear them for me,” I shoot back. The pool boy doesn’t get to know what this scarlet underwear set means to me. I saw it online during one of my more lucid moments after The Incident. Made of jacaranda satin, soft mesh, and gold corsetry clips, this set is made for single malt whisky and wild nights of debauchery, the description read. Perfect. 

 

They’re the exact opposite of the practical cotton panties Old Fergie used to wear – the kind of wholesome underthings he expected of me. 

 

He made me into the girl who wears scarlet lace and corset ribbons. He made me the thirsty slut who gets off on coarse words and rough hands.

 

I plan on being exactly what they think I am.

 

The pool boy tugs off the scrap of scarlet and flings it away. His hands stroke my thighs, and my legs fall open for him. I don’t care that I’m being a thirsty bitch – he’s here and his touch feels amazing and maybe I’ll regret this tomorrow but right now his rough thumb circles my clit and I’m a mess of fizzing nerve endings and lightning strikes and wild fucking debauchery.

 

I feel something again, and I want more.

 

He presses his thumb into my clit, and the orgasm slams into me. I jerk off the bed as the pleasure courses through me in a wave that starts between my legs and rises through my limbs, cresting in the tips of my fingers and behind my eyes. A thousand butterflies flap their wings inside me and I never, ever want them to stop.

 

Hello, Pool Boy. 

 

I’ve never come like that before.

 

He doesn’t give me a chance to recover. He grabs my thighs and drags me to the edge of the bed as he thrusts forward and impales me on his thick, hard cock. I cry out as he stretches me, because it’s painful, but the best kind of pain. The kind of pain that forces you back into your body. The kind of pain that obliterates.

 

And I have so very, very much I wish to obliterate.

 

When did he even take his pants off? Is he wearing a condom? All things I should know, but I don’t, and I don’t care because his dick is like a knife slicing away at the last three months of hell.

 

I bury my nose into his collarbone as I buck my hips against him. His skin smells of salt and pool chemicals and that fruity carnation scent tinged with musk that drives me wild. I drag my teeth across the artery in his neck. All of a sudden, I’m starving. 

 

His thrusts become deeper, more urgent. He swells inside me, and it stirs the butterflies into a frenzy. His lips brush my earlobe, and I feel them curl back into a smirk. “Welcome to the family, sis.”

 

CHAPTER THREE: CASSIUS

She screams as my revelation hits her, or maybe that’s the cry of a second orgasm being torn from her body. Her hips jerk against mine, but I have her. She’s not getting away. 

 

I laugh as I thrust into her one final time, my balls tightening as I come inside my new stepsister.

 

Fuck. Fuck.

 

I didn’t intend to go this far. I was in my room looking for the ledger when I heard her come upstairs with my mother, and I wanted to play chicken with my blind stepsister who dares to sleep in Gaius’ old room. I wanted to see how long it took her to figure out who I was. But then I saw her laid out on her silken sheets, a halo of red hair streaming around her. Then I tasted those pouty, petulant lips of hers.

 

Then she wrapped those long legs of hers around me.

 

Then she tilted her head back, exposing that lovely long neck, and made this purring sound that makes me harder than I’ve ever been before.

 

I’ve been with hundreds of girls. It’s always fun, especially when they scream. Especially when they bleed. But I’ve never fucked someone like her. She’s so completely in the moment. 

 

She doesn’t care what she looks like beneath me. She isn’t trying to angle her body to flatter her stomach or swing her glorious tits in my face. She isn’t performing. She isn’t thinking about what jumping on my dick can do for her reputation.

 

She simply is. 

 

My stepsister drew me in, and for the few messed up minutes I’ve been inside her, her long legs clamped around me and her mind lost in raw, primal fucking, I lost myself, too.

 

That’s never fucking happened before. 

 

The moment fractures. Just as I spill my load, she plants both hands on my chest and shoves. I laugh, but to my shock, I go flying. She’s stronger than she looks. 

 

I sail across the room. My back slams into her dresser and I go down. A cord of jizz squirts out the tip of my cock and lands on the rug. I run my tongue across my lip and taste blood. More blood dribbles down her chin. She must’ve bit my lip when I revealed my surprise. 

 

She licks my blood off her lips, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. “You bastard. Touch me again and I won’t be so gentle.”

 

Her chest heaves, but she doesn’t make any move to grab her clothing. She stares back at me with those cracked emerald eyes, unseeing, unrelenting.

 

My lip starts to sting. 

 

A red haze descends over my eyes, tinging the corners of the room with blood. How fucking dare she? 

 

Her scam artist of a father has conned his way into my mother’s panties, and she dares to look at me from my brother’s bed as if she can see right through me?

 

She’s blind, for fuck’s sake.

 

“You wanted it.” I crawl to my feet and stick my fingers in my mouth, sucking her juices off them. I hadn’t even stuck one inside her and she was so wet. So wet and delicious, like fresh raspberries from Milo’s garden. I smack my lips loudly so she knows exactly what I’m doing. “You practically begged me, and from the taste of you, you enjoyed what I did to you, sis. I’m hard again just thinking about that sweet little noise you make when you come.”

 

It’s true. My cock twitches, desperate to be inside her again. My stepsister’s face reddens as I keep on talking. I’m searching for the button to push that will make her snap. I know it’s there somewhere. 

 

She’s not special. She might have a magical cunt that tastes like raspberries, but she’s just a girl, a gold-digger, a distraction. Nothing more. 

 

“Want me to sneak back in when your daddy goes to bed?” I taunt her. “Want me to eat out that tight little cunt while you come all over my brother’s sheets? Want me to bend you over his dresser and spank that hot little ass of yours until you beg for my cock? I hope you’re on the pill, because I only fuck bareback. We’re going to have so much fun, sis.”

 

Found it. 

 

“Get out get out get out,” she screams. Her face twists with fury as sweet tears pool at the edges of her eyes.

 

I love it when they cry. 

 

The red mist retreats as my cock grows rock hard at the sight of those tears. But they don’t spill over. She holds them back.

 

She leans across the bed and grabs the vase of flowers. I duck as it sails across the room and smashes against the dresser, right where I’d been standing a moment ago. For a blind girl, she’s got decent aim. 

 

I grab my clothes, shove her red panties into my pocket, and stride into my bathroom, slamming the door so hard the wall rattles. 

 

“You don’t belong here,” I yell through the wall. “You’ll never be part of this family.”

 

“Rot in hell, Cassius!”

 

A wild laugh escapes my throat. 

 

What the fuck did I just do?

 

I just fucked my new stepsister. 

 

That’s messed up, even by my standards.

 

I lean over the sink and stare at my reflection. Her raspberry scent clings to my lips.

 

Welcome to the family, Fergie Munroe.

 

When Mom told me she was marrying some dude from Massachusetts, I figured it must have something to do with work – an alliance or a debt owed. Cali Dio never does anything unless it’s for the good of the family, and she doesn’t do emotions, so it can’t be sentimental. But the guy in our kitchen looks like he can’t even unblock a shower drain, let alone break a man’s neck with his bare hands. He’s not part of our world. He’s a dentist, for fuck’s sake. What could my mother possibly see in a dentist?

 

I know why he’s here – because my mother is rich and hot, and weak men have a hard-on for her kind of power. But I don’t understand what she gets out of the arrangement.

 

And the cherry on top of this shit sundae, Cali declares that Torsten has to move out of Gaius’ room so my new stepsister can have it. My blind stepsister.

 

I’ve never met anyone blind before. I expected a damsel in distress with no idea about the real world. I didn’t expect Fergus fucking Munroe in her punk boots and her hair like a waterfall of fire. I didn’t expect the way she turns her head to me and glares like even though she can’t see me, she can slice through my skin.

 

At least now she knows how things are going to be. I had to do something to restore control of the situation. I had to make it clear that she’s in my house, and I don’t need some little blind girl poking around in my shit. 

 

I splash cold water on my face and take a moment to rearrange myself, then head through the door on the other end of the bathroom into my room. It’s identical to Fergus’, but a mirror image – the bed against the opposite wall, the window on the other side. Clothes and shit are strewn everywhere, the mess worse than usual because Torsten’s clothing and art supplies are stacked in here, too. Luella refuses to touch this room, and I don’t blame her. 

 

I grab my backpack and draw out the leather-bound ledger. As I do, her panties slip out of my pocket and fall on top. Her heady, raspberry scent invades my nostrils. The urge to bury my nose in the soft fabric courses through my body.

 

I caress my leather belt, drawing myself back to the present before the red mist slips in again. I can’t help but imagine drawing my belt over Fergie’s skin, yanking it tight enough to leave welts, tying her treacherous little body to the bed so I can do whatever I like to her…

 

I’m getting hard again just thinking about her.

 

“Fuck. Get over it. She’s just a chick.” I tuck the ledger under my arm and head back down the hall. 

 

I fucked my stepsister. It’s out of my system now. I can go back to hating her.

Fergie Munroe may have wormed her way into our house, our lives, and onto my cock, but she is not going to get under my skin.